TATER

There will be no gym for him today, having injured his hip in a fall the week before.  The exercise will have to wait another week, and today, the idea of dieting is quietly tucked away, well behind the inspiration to cook for his little family.  This is a ritual he is driven to perform, a way of making amends for the long hours working away from home.  It is a second love performed for him and the first love of his life;  his partner of twenty odd years.

He started off the morning trimming chicken, and seasoning it in a marinade of Olive oil, sage, garlic, curry, salt, pepper, and lemon juice.  He braved the cool temperatures to cook the breasts on the outside grill, all the while shadowed by his dancing pup who was frantically tapping him with her paws for a morsel of meat.  Mission accomplished, for him and his dog, as he offered her a daily tithe of fresh food, in order to garner her attention and kisses, as well as sealing the deal on the “most favored human” status.  The chicken will be saved for meals during the week, and a breast will be diced finely to accompany the cheese stuffing inside the homemade raviolis, of which he has been daydreaming about for the last two weeks.

He thought about the past week as he measured out equal parts of semolina and all purpose flour into the mixing bowl.  His mind daydreamed about the Italian grandma he never had, in the old country he had never visited.  He watched her strong and weathered hands crack the two eggs into the well of flour and salt, and add a bit of olive oil.  He looked at his own strong hands as he swept the flour over the yolks, and incorporated the sticky mess into a mound of dough.  He imagined looking out his window past the garden where the lavender grew tall and fragrant, over the rolling amber of an italian countryside.  He drew in a breath of summer air as he patted the dough to a ball.  The comforting vision faded as he slammed and kneaded the dough.  He thought of people that had irritated him during the last week, as he slammed, folded, kneaded and turned the smooth, elastic disc.  His anger breaking as the dough relaxed, to be replaced with gratitude for this kitchen, these countertops of cool granite, the accoutrements of machinery and utensils to do his bidding, and save him time.  He thought of friends he had read that morning, said a prayer for Al and Singher, chuckled over the similarities he shared with Red, laughed at the Hat’s top ten list,  said a brief thanks for Belle, who had poured her soul into her latest post, and felt a bit sorry for Father Tony, whom he sensed was struggling a bit to entertain himself in retirement, and who was missing his partner up north.

He fed the dough through the pasta machine and gently caught the emerging flat sheets and laid them on floured waxed paper.  He would do this three more times, to achieve the appropriate thickness for the Ravioli, and would give them a very very light dusting of flour to keep them from sticking.  He marveled at the ancient ones who first dreamed up the idea for pasta, he wondered how they bridged the divide between ground flour, and delicately stuffed little pillows submerged in a rich tomato sauce.  Yet another reason to be grateful for being human, for this place in time’s continuum and human evolution, that allowed him the luxury (for surely this is a luxury) of turning items stocked on a shelf, into a wonderful meal.

His attention turned to the stuffing, and he grabbed a mixing bowl to commence his experimentation of flavors.  He blended together Ricotta, ewe’s milk Romano, and Parmesan cheeses, with one egg and fresh parsley.  He added a pinch of sea salt, some pepper, and a drizzle of oil infused with fresh truffles.  He incorporated the very finely diced chicken breast, and folded it neatly together.  He let that cool in the fridge as he turned to trim and cut the dough sheets into neat rectangles with a pizza cutter.  He dipped his fingers in water and wet edges of the rectangles so they would fuse together upon folding, and then added a lump of the stuffing on one side, folding the other half over on top of it.  With a crimper, he sealed all sides, and set aside the little pillow.  He relished the slow methodical work, and thought of his partner, of the tough last few years he had experienced.  He warmed to the sight of his happy expression at dinner, after sojourns like this in the kitchen.  Jim loved his cooking, and always felt pampered and cared for when sitting down to a good meal.

He plopped the raviolis in boiling water, and stirred them gently a few times over the course of fifteen minutes.  He wished he had thought to call his parents to come down and join them for an impromptu dinner, today being sunny and clear, making the trip down a little easier.  Their visits had dwindled over the last few years due to his dad’s Alzheimer’s, and the ever increasing desire he expressed for staying at home.  They could have brought their new puppy down for the day to play with his dog, and his mom could have been pampered along with Jim, in a day out of the house, and free of cooking.  “Perhaps the weekend after next” he thought to himself as he gently strained the pasta, and added them to the pot of bubbling, fresh sauce. 

He dished up two servings, and garnished them with a sprinkling of parmesan and a fresh sprig of parsley.  They were heaven on a plate.